


This will be our truth

by Selena_Guardi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, drug overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:21:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selena_Guardi/pseuds/Selena_Guardi





	This will be our truth

„It was an accident.“

Nobody contradicts her. There is no use.

„He would never have...“

Molly's voice trails off and once again the only sound that is heard is the constant splatter of rain on their black umbrellas. Most guests already made their way back to the entrance of the graveyard, turning up their coat collars against the biting autumn wind. It really is a horrible day.

The turn out was bigger than he would have expected though. He never was the best at keeping on the good side of people. And yet, a considerable number came.

A speech, a procession, another few words from the minister. He would never have wanted all this religious nonsense, at least that's what he thinks. Who could really know for sure. But it's for the parents, probably. His brother's speech was crisp, to the point, distant. But Greg can see the pain in his face, the tiredness that only sleepless nights can have caused, the sleepless nights that come with grief and guilt. But nobody could have stopped him. He is sure. No one had ever stopped Sherlock Holmes from anything.

Mrs Hudson reaches out and squeezes Molly's hand.

„I'm sure you're right, my dear.“

Molly just nods and the elderly woman turns around as well after looking one last time at the mount of fresh earth. Wiggins holds her umbrella and steadies her as they walk back over the muddy grass towards the car park. He seems to have taken to the old lady lately, maybe that's a good turn. After all that has happened. The detective inspector watches them until they are at the gate, a small dot in the foggy autumn air. Mycroft reappears at the gate. He escorted his parents to their car, Mrs Holmes was crying. He gives the inspector a quick nod. Lestrade nods in return and Mycroft is gone the next minute.

Now it is only them.

Greg notices a spot of dirt on his shoe, a splash of muddy earth perfectly round. He had polished them this morning. It had felt wrong to take them out of the wardrobe again so soon. It only seemed like yesterday that they had all lined up in their black ties and dresses, following the body of another great man and yet it was nearly two months now. He understood Mary. She didn't have to go through all of this again, not so soon after...

“You found him. You must know.”

Ripped from his thoughts Greg looks up from his shoes.

“Mh?”

“You found him,” she repeats.

“Well, Wiggins found him. But he didn't want to be in the report for … reasons,” he admits.

The pathologist nods.

“But yes, Wiggins didn't touch anything. He called me right away.”

“So you know?”

There is so much hope in this simple question, so much weight in the answer. For a moment he looks back on the spot on his shoe.

“He would never have killed himself. He still had so much to live for,” she whispers a little sob escaping her.

Greg looks up. The tears are back in her eyes. They are silent, slowly making their way down her cheeks. Her eyes are big and fearful, like his answer could shatter her world or make it whole again.

But she knows the answer, just as well as he does. Because she knows... knew Sherlock. She knows how far his knowledge of chemistry went, she knows how much experience he had with drugs. She knows. And yet, she wants nothing more than to forget. To lie to herself. She wants to believe in something that is just that little bit less hurtful.

“I'm not an expert on this,” Greg says calmly.

“But what did it look like to you?”

He could tell her what it had looked like to him. He could tell her about the way Sherlock's body had been lying on the floor of his flat, slipped out of his chair, a plastic band tied around his arm, stopping the circulation, the needle next to him. The way the flat had looked, John's journal entries scattered across the floor, the empty bottles on the table. He could tell her that he had known the minute he had entered the room what had happened. He could tell her how he had seen a similar sight so many times before, too many times. He could tell her that the only thing that had been missing was a letter to make the picture whole. He could tell her that he had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes had killed himself. He could.

But he doesn't. Instead he hears himself talking about what must have been a terrible accident. Comforting her, lying to her. And he can see it in her eyes, the gratitude, the little bit of hope returning that had been missing for the last days. Something passes between them, not in what is said in particular but between the lines. A silent understanding, that this will be the version they will believe. This will be the version of events they will cling to. Just to make it bearable.

In silence they watch the mount of earth.


End file.
